#house dzemael

[dearestcherry]

junelezen day 9: deviation.

house drelejon produced lines of loyal dzemael knights. that was what they were known for, and had done for many, many years. the emergence of a weakling in knight training was unprepared for. they had always trained knights. what good was such a child if they weren't to serve their house's purpose? dreisseaux lived a life of hardship in their earlier years, deviating from their family's traditions. sent to study at the scholasticate in retaliation of their knight failures, taking an interest in crafting and animal care. they became the target of extensive teasing, and a scapegoat for their parents' disappointments. yet they had also paved a path for a future generation within their house, an alternative to the way they had always been raised. house dzemael's investment in producing talented crafters meant they were not out of place at all. their love for personal projects allowed contributions to ishgardian society as they so pleased. they now care for the animals they adore and craft to their heart's content, living free from their family's venomous influence. an example to others finding themselves different to the herd that life still holds meaning and joy ahead.

[watanabes-cum-dump]

Wait what the fuck is Thordan’s real name? Bc archbishops take on names of past saints/religious figures when they are ordained so… what’s Thordan’s? It it ever mentioned anywhere?

[elizabethrobertajones]

Does anyone have a cool headcanon for why the Fortemps heraldry is on the jewellery you get from Dusk Vigil/The Vault? :D

(Like boringly, they only made 1 type for NPCs then handed it over to us via dungeon loot, and also made sure we get it from the dungeon right before Events. I'm talking, elaborate Ishgardian politics headcanon lore here)

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

Marielle de Dzemael

"Blood must only be shed for a worthy purpose. Killing just for the sake of killing, causing needless suffering, wanton destruction—such things cannot be borne. That is why I do this. I put men and beasts like that down to keep them from preying on those who don't stand a chance at defending themselves."

The trueborn daughter of a “trueborn" (actually a bastard) son of House Dzemael, trained as a Reaper by Drusilla. She left Ishgard when she was 19, angry at the pointlessness of the war and frustrated with the strict rules and petty politicking of the High Houses. She wandered Eorzea aimlessly, ultimately falling in with Drusilla and the Lemures in Ul'dah, and the life of crime and voidsent hunting suited her. In time, she also became a spy, selling useful information to the highest bidder (and passing anything important on to the Scions free of charge).

She returned to Ishgard when Nidhogg resumed his crusade, acting alone against the Horde and joining the freelancers on the Steps of Faith. Her voidsent pact would almost certainly get her executed for heresy, but she deems it worth the risk—she still has people she loves in the Holy See. She fought alongside the Warriors of Light at Azys Lla and helped them put an end to Thordan's ambitions.

When Aymeric comes into power, she decides to remain in Ishgard and aid the rebuilding effort how she can, safe in the knowledge that she’s not likely to be executed now. Though she holds no official authority or position even in House Dzemael, she's respected (if also somewhat feared by the average person) and has proven herself a stalwart ally to not just Aymeric, Lucia, and Hilda, but the people of Ishgard as a whole. Whatever you need, whether it be information or protection from the wild beasts of Coerthas or simply someone who can clear out those damn ogres, Marielle is at your service—for a modest fee, of course.

[morganaux]

@atdutiesend (Continued from here!)

In truth, Morganaux had not actually expected the Au Ra standing at the manor's doorstep to be the latest addition to House Dzemael's roster of knights. His greeting had been simply a means of gathering information without outright asking what his visitor why they were here. Asking them directly seemed like it would be rude, he thought, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare off one of the two Au Ra he had ever seen in the streets of Ishgard. There was a reason why their kind tended to avoid the Holy See, and he did not want to be a part of that reason like much of the rest of his adoptive family.

Grabbing handfuls of his petticoat-stuffed skirt, the Elezen bent into a curtsy before rising back to his full height and regarding Dove with a warm smile. "Morganaux de Dzemael, my good ser," he introduced, turning to open the door for them. His mind was full of questions, but he would save them for later. Much later, once his guest was settled in. "'Tis an honor to have you in our service. Pardon the coarse language, but I can already tell you've more stones than just about any knight in our service, choosing to come here of all places. Come on in and I'll fix you some tea and scones. You must be freezing!"

[stars-and-clouds]

hi res download

This is just my understanding of the Ishgardian power hierarchy as I gathered from the game and the undermentioned sources.

some notes:

The church’s power mostly ‘technically’ spans over the orange blocks but some of the green blocks too. It should be noted, however, that Ishgard is a theocracy and religion practically rules over everything. Some examples of lose church power is that, the ruling houses seem to always have some cardinals appointed inside the church from their own house. It is, of course, not clear that it is forced upon the houses or the houses do it to have power inside the church. I wish there was a clearer explanation of this.

In regards to the lose connection between the inquisition and the ruling houses, it seems the houses do fear the authority of the inquisition officers and the inquisitor even by high standing lords (and knights) like Haurchefant and Francel. This is odd since nothing suggests they are above the ruling houses as it is my understanding that the ruling houses are basically a council of rulers in Ishgard, so, they shouldn’t be beneath the vault technically but they seemed to be practically. Religion rules.

I did not find examples any knights sworn to the minor houses, so it seems only the ruling houses have knights sworn to them and the minor houses sends their members to be sworn to the ruling houses, something like bannermen. This might not be for life, however, as seen by the knight Ser Carrilaut who used to serve house Haillenarte but has moved to serve house Dzemael when we meet him for the quest ‘The Rose and the Unicorn’.

*I apologise for the typo in the infographic: Next to the block of ‘minor house,’ the noble title should be ‘Viscount/Viscountess,’ not ‘Visount/Visountess’ lel

edit note (221214): If a clergy member is particularly young, newly admitted or is beneath a pastor, they can be referred with ‘sister/brother’ titles.

As always, respectfully correct me if I have made some mistakes.

Hope this helps people =D

Sources:

Haillenarte on tumblr

Ishgardian Lore Document

Encyclopaedia Eorzea- I by Square Enix

[estinininininen]

Aymeric: 32

Thordan: 74

Thordan had Aymeric when he was 42. When he was damn old enough to know better. Out of wedlock child when you're 20, barely of Elezen age? You're a young idiot but you can be forgiven and expected to do better. Out of wedlock child at age 42? This fucker wasn't making one "oopsy" after 20ish years of pious celibacy. This was a pattern.

How many half-siblings do y'all think Aymeric has?

. . . A few members of the Heavens' Ward kinda resemble him or Thordan.

Haumeric, Adelphel, Noudenet. Adelphel and Noudenet in particular have those startlingly blue eyes. Weird. I'm sure it's a coincidence. Not to mention if someone resembled their mother more than their father. And what was going on with Zephirin expected to be the Lord Commander? (The only Ward member who's definitely not Thordan's son is Grinnaux de Dzemael, not necessarily because he comes from a Great House but because his skin is pretty dark.) Anyroad. I'm sure Archbishop Thordan wouldn't pull from an available pool of young men desperate for his attention when only he knew their true connection if he had something he needed loyal followers for. Nope.

[redwayfarers]

survivor - for the random word generator prompt!

hello! sorry for the wait, real life got the better of me and i didn't write, but i was reading gide and this came to me like an angel, so i had to write it! if it reads like les faux monnayeurs, i'm so sorry lmao, this is why they tell you not to write immediately after reading (affectionate)

a flickering light, or a tale of two survivors

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Cassander/Stephanivien (implied), Nika/Minfilia Characters: Cassander Inteus (aka a Cass AU), Nika Perseis (WoL), Stephanivien de Haillenarte Rating: Gen Words: 1759 Spoilers: ARR patches, if you squint. dividers by @saradika

Set during early Heavensward.

The Skysteel Manufactory gets stupidly creepy at night. It’s not lit by torches or something, like some parts of the city - Stephanivien saw to that, he’s too avant-garde for torches, how dare the world not use every technological advancement ever! - and there’s a few of the lamps that go on and off, like a broken clock. Stephanivien is too busy to see that of all things, and we’re all far too enthralled by the creepiness to tell him. 

Some of us have weird tastes. 

The workshops on higher levels are a mess of metal parts, wires, cogs, magical devices and whatever the fuck machinists need. There’s a beauty in that too, in a way. It feels lived in, like a childhood bedroom you can’t yet leave even though you’re getting married tomorrow. Except that I was an adult when I first saw this room, and that I’d have no idea what a beloved childhood room would look, let alone feel like. My childhood bedroom - or the room where I spent a large part of what people call a childhood, anyways - is pristine, devoid of personality, rich, opulent. It’s a stage more than anything. Only thing remotely lived in in that whole fucking room - no, the whole shitty house - is the bright, orange pillow with Dzemael sigil sewn on it. 

It was embarrassing, packing your childhood pillow, the first time I left to spend the night in the Manufactory. But maybe I am embarrassing, deep down, so I get to keep my little pillow with me and go freeze in the messy, lived in workshops overnight. The more I got used to that, the less embarrassing it felt. 

One day, I might even go take it to Coerthas and drown in a river there. I’m sure my mother would be happier for it. She found the pillow rather tacky anyways. 

“It was very.. Kind of you to let me in,” I told Stephanivien one night, seated beside him to watch him work. His eyeshadow bore the signs of wearing, a little messy at the edges. His forehead gleamed with sweat. The lamp was dying, but he was too engrossed in his work to notice and I was too engrossed in him to tell him. 

“Kind? Cassander, your mother is an absolute bitch. Even if you weren’t as pretty as you are, I would have taken you in regardless. Between us, darling, you’re wasted in that house.” He smiled, widely. “You look much better with a gun in your hand, I will say.” 

“You will,” I laugh, looking at my hands. My cheeks were burning. “I think I like guns. Long ones in particular. Elegant. You may think I’m referring to something else, but no, I am referring to metal objects you use to shoot things with.”

“You’re funny,” Stephanivien shakes his head. “I can make you one, if you’d like. Golden, to match the pillow.” 

“My future gun has a bed now, who would’ve thought.” I reached out and grasped his gloved hand, dirty from the work. Stephanivien smiled, and it seemed brighter than the dying lamp above our heads. 

Maybe I’m also a little fond of that struggling, dying thing. I go up sometimes, when it’s cold, or rainy, or everyone’s simply too busy for me and my jobless ass, sit beneath it and look at the gun Stephanivien gave me. A nameday gift, engraved with a little dagger. It’s in pristine condition, but I clean it anyway, with all the care you afford a priceless, porcelain vase; the light flickers, on and off, but I don’t need it to see the little dagger engraving, the nooks and the crannies and the long barrel that feels like something my mother would hate. 

That, too, brings me joy. Theokleia de Dzemael hates machinists, on principle. The fact that I not only own a gun, but can shoot with it, is a kind of pleasure I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of some 5 years ago. 

This particular evening, I climb up the stairs to the workshop, coffee in hand, ready to clean it from the last practice from earlier. A curl that the goggles aren’t holding up tickles my temple, but I’ll be damned if I let my coffee spill just because of one stray piece of hair that refuses to sit still. I kick the door open. 

“I like your gun,” someone says before I can fully register them. A pair of mismatched eyes moves from the weapon to me and my coffee. “Did you also drink the last of the coffee?” 

“I’m not a coffee maniac,” I grumble, frowning. “I can’t drink all of it. What kind of question is that, for fuck’s everloving sake?” 

Nika looks at me with an equal furrow. However, that’s his MO, and mine is decidedly not. I have been known to grin maniacally once or twice. “One that needs answering.” 

The light flickers above our heads. It casts a sudden light onto his face, and shines a weak light onto the hazel eye and the scar on his nose and cheek. Ouch. His lips are pulled in a tight line, his short, black hair in disarray, a stark contrast to the finery of the clothes he’s wearing - courtesy of his hosts here in Ishgard. 

For a Warrior of Light, he is very gloomy and dark. An asshole, too. You’d think the Warrior of Light, of all people, would be a hero, but no, we’re stuck with a perpetually frowning asshole. What a joy. 

“What do you want? Move, I need that desk.” I place the overfilled cup down as roughly as I can. “There’s no fucking coffee here except the one on the table, and that’s mine.”

“I paid you a compliment,” he says, unmoving. “You could at least say thank you. You nobles should have manners.” 

“Je suis plein de gratitude. I know you paid me a compliment, but the question later made no sense so that had to be addressed first.” 

Nika looks at the gun again. He taps his fingers against the wood in a rhythm, three taps forward, one tap backward, three strong, one a glide, then in reverse. He then looks at his feet and takes a deep breath. “Minfilia is better at this sort of thing. She knows how to talk to you higher classes.” 

“Minfilia?” Who the fuck is this Minfilia woman? I readjust my goggles, and push the tickling curl away from my skin. Is she his lover, his sister? His friend? I can’t imagine him caring about anyone, including himself. From what little he’s been here in the Manufactory, a stray taken in by Stephanivien’s brightness much like me, all he did is make nonsense sentences and antagonize everyone. 

“Someone very dear to me. But she isn’t here, and neither is Alphinaud, so you’re stuck with me.” 

Alphinaud? Oh yeah, one of the other wards. The elezen kid. Whoever did his braid deserves to be fired because it’s needlessly messy and terrible. “Which would be fine, if you stopped speaking in riddles. Now can I sit, Warrior of Light, or will you clean my likeable gun for me? I’m not making you coffee.”

“In riddles? I’m not–” Nika frowns yet again. “Have your gun, whats-your-face.” 

“Cassander. Cassander de Dzemael.” 

“Cassander,” he says, like he’s testing the name. I look down at him. 

The light flickers. Something crosses his face, and his eyes look painfully vulnerable for a moment, and he’s tapping his fingers in the same rhythm again. 

“Why are you here, Nika?” I ask. I don’t know why my voice becomes so gentle. Maybe because I’m towering over him, and if I kept the hard edge, it would scare him off, not that I care about that. Maybe if I spoke gentler, he’d buck less under every question. Maybe he’d even start making sense. 

Or maybe the images of my mother’s hard voice echo in my head, like a hammer to the anvil. Now it is my turn to grip the table until my nail beds go a little pale. Her shouts and her yells, her derisive comments, her hard eyes and her pointed anger, and her looming, Halone’s ass, the looming! Do I sound like that? Do I sound as rough as she does? 

Nika’s quiet for a while. He keeps looking at his hands, rough and harsh. “That’s none of your business,” he rasps, but moves so that I could sit. “If someone needs me, they don’t know where to look.” 

I sit and take a long sip of my coffee. “Just mind the pillow, then. And try not to interrupt. This is something of a sacred ritual, you see. Halone-ordained. When you go to church, they tell you you must clean your gun or else she will smite you, or something.” 

He huffs. 

“Or so I hear,” I add with a shrug. “I’m not frequently in church.” 

The light flickers. 

“Minfilia would also laugh at that,” Nika says. I still have no idea who this Minfilia is, but she’s welcome to laugh at my jokes, wherever she is. “Will they fix the fucking thing?”

I take a sip of coffee. “Don’t think so. It’s rather cute. On and off. We all like weird things, I think, and my particular weird thing is this broken little lamp. Besides, I’m sure Stephanivien will notice at some point or another. When it dies, probably.”

“He’s the one making these guns, I’d rather he didn’t make me a faulty one,” Nika shrugs. “But if he sees, it’s whatever. It’s just annoying. You asked me earlier why I’m here. I was drawn to the gun. I think it has a nice shot.” He pauses. “I’m sure that the Fortemps family can pay for one of these.”

“Pretty sure they can, yeah. This one’s mine, though.” 

“I’m not in the habit of stealing people’s weapons.” 

I lift a brow. “Never said you were.” 

Nika shakes his head and heads for the door. The light flickers and he looks up. “Someone should really fix the damn thing,” he says, a little less angry than before. He’s then gone, tucking his waistcoat tighter for warmth, and I watch him go before he’s part of the shadows and I can take out my tools. 

We all like weird things. Some of us like long-barreled guns. Some of us like women named Minfilia, and speaking in riddles. And who knows? Maybe this broken little lamp refuses to die because it likes us, too. 

Halone works in weird fucking ways. 

[ainyan]

WIP Wednesday Whenever

I missed WIP Wednesday yesterday (and for a few months), but I really wanted to give you guys a bit of a taste of one of the pieces I'm working on.

From the private journals of Lord Aymeric of Ishgard, as discovered by G'raha Tia in the ruins of Ishgard, Eighth Umbral Era

Word of her work in the Western Highlands and in the Sea of Clouds circulated amongst the families of Ishgard, and for once, the scions of House Dzemael spoke well of the foreign woman in our lands. House Haillenarte already thought the world of her, but Lady Laniaitte had been equally as impressed by the Warrior of Light as her younger brother. I must wonder if it was those accolades as much as the indiscreet questioning by her companions that led the Heavens’ Ward to accuse them of heresy. In hindsight, I realize that my father’s personal knights would not have taken kindly to a storied hero in their midst and not under their control.  I do not think then that they believed the rumors from Eorzea regarding the Warrior of Light. This does not surprise me overmuch; love overflowing have I for Ishgard and her people, but we have an arrogance that we have ill-earned at times. When she stood forth as the champion of Mistress Tataru, I could see the smirks in the eyes of those arrogant knights. Those smirks faded quickly when she began to move. Within moments of starting, it became clear that her azure Drachen armor had been fairly earned. Her lance was but an extension of her arm and the fury of Nidhogg swirled about her, lending a dark aura to her obsidian horns and glittering scales. She was justice incarnate; a breathtaking avatar of Halone Herself. She won handily, as one might expect from the woman who put an end to the Black Wolf’s reign. By the time that both Ser Grinnaux and Ser Paulecrain were kneeling in defeat, their flushed faces set in furious lines, Alphinaud was similarly winded, hands planted upon his thighs as he fought for breath. By contrast, she looked as radiant as the moment she had entered the arena, not even a sheen of sweat upon her brow as she gazed down upon the two defeated knights with a disappointed expression. When the Arbiter announced the outcome and acquitted the two unfortunate Scions, she turned and left in her usual silence. While most would not have had the fortitude to resist heaping remonstrations upon the heads of the defeated, she declined to do so, instead exiting the arena in dignified silence with her companions in tow. Once more, I found myself impressed with her all out of proportion to her diminutive size and retiring demeanor. Nor was I the only one; Lord Haurchefant gifted her with her very own black Ishgardian chocobo, direct from the Fortemps stables. Embarrassed though I am to admit it, I wish I could gift her with a similar demonstration of my approval. Alas. Perhaps I will be afforded such an opportunity in the future.

[shadowed-vigil]

day 17: sally

noun: a sudden charge out of a besieged place against the enemy; a brief journey or sudden start into activity. characters: warrior of light, grinnaux de dzemael word count: 1926 notes/WARNINGS: noncon/consensual nonconsent if you SQUINT. set during the vault, au/not canonical for my wol

It starts with a chain cinched around her ankle. 

It shouldn’t start with anything. She’s better than this, she’s evaded worse. It’s just — 

She’s fast, but gods, she’s tired. It hasn’t exactly been an easy day; conspiratory whispers in a cleared out bar tumbling into an abrupt interruption, the sheer whiplash of watching a man launched from the top of the stairs at the Knight; the immediate understanding and sense of dread that had accompanied Ser Charibert’s face as he leered over the banister, clearly pleased with his work and eager for more. 

(At least she’d beaten the tar out of him before he’d fled. She had that much to her name, thank the gods.) 

But there was an implication with his attack in the first place; as good as a declaration of war, the walls closing in around her and hers. The confirmation as Lucia relayed the news that the Temple Knights were compromised, that they’d been seized by — 

“This isn’t right,” she’d whispered to Haurchefant, wringing her hands. “I know he’s — well, I know, but —” 

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he’d soothed, ever an anchor amidst the storm. He smiled at her and gently squeezed her hand. “One way or another.”  ———

She had no way to know for sure what was waiting for her in the Vault. She had her suspicions to be sure — knew there was a fight to be had, that they wouldn’t make it easy for her. 

Adelphel wasn’t exactly who she’d been expecting — not so quick, not so soon. She’d assumed that maybe he was just naive enough to go along with whatever greater plot was at play rather than ask questions. He’s the youngest of them, after all.

She ignores that they’re the same age as she makes the argument in her head, had drawn her weapon all the same. It isn’t like he’d been interested in talking.

Grinnaux, however, has never learned how to shut his mouth.

She’s exhausted by the time she stumbles her way to Chapter House, bloodied and spent and —

“Alone?” he mocks, almost instantly. 

It hurts — wounds her to her core to see him so smug, so willfully mean. She bites her lip to keep it from wobbling. She thought seeing her would hurt him, too. 

(Maybe it did. Maybe, in his way —) 

“No,” she bites back — lies, poorly. “Reinforcements are on their way. It won’t be long.” 

She catches his answering smile, the sneer. 

Still, he indulges her; says, dreadfully soft, already mid-transformation, “Then let’s make this quick.”  ———

So it starts with the chain. 

Better than the gravity manipulation, she supposes — because he might play dirty but he affords her that much to start, the illusion of opportunity, like it doesn’t still paralyze her as he yanks her towards him. She supposes she deserves it for loosing an arrow directly at his head.

(Well — sort of. Because she’d pulled her shot, hope still stirring traitorously in her chest.) 

Furious tears spring to her eyes as she tries to will her limbs to move but can’t, pulse leaping fearfully as she catches the adjustment of his grip on Stampede. Confusion, when he doesn’t just swing at her outright, when he doesn’t hit her when he has her where he wants her. 

Like he’s toying with her. Prolonging the inevitable. 

The unwanted…? 

(Oh, some part of her chides, the whispers of some yet unknown shadow in the recesses of her mind. Perhaps you really are a fool.)

The paralysis doesn’t last long. The moment she feels her fingers twitch, she flings an arm back, reaching wildly for an arrow. 

He even lets her shoot it. 

How benevolent.

It finds purchase past the chainmail beneath his pauldron, breaking past the armor to sink in. It doesn’t seem to phase him in a way that matters, a brief pause as he glances down — and then he just reaches for it to rip it free, lazily snapping the fletching between thumb and forefinger.

“That one was poisoned,” she warns, already reaching for another. 

His answering chuckle comes out cruel, augmented by the aetherial distortion. 

“Is that so?” The first chain tightens, the slip of another snaking up around her other ankle, her wrist. She lifts her bow and he knocks it aside like it’s nothing, grabbing her wrist so tightly she wonders if he means to break it. “Think it’ll matter?”  ———

It doesn’t. 

She’s quick, she’s strong — she is capable, she’s dealt with worse, she — 

Hits the ground so hard it forces the air from her lungs. 

Her vision blurs as she chokes, palms pressed fast and hard against the floor — flexing into claws as she scrambles blindly, heart leaping in her throat when she feels a large, large hand settle against her back, crushing her back down. 

“Don’t,” she croaks, clawing the floor, trying to remember how to breathe properly so that she can scream, “don’t, please, this isn’t fair, this —” 

“No,” he murmurs, “I suppose it isn’t.”  

She writhes and kicks in protest, gasping — still blinking splotches from her vision as she stares bleakly up, the sunlight blinding as it spills through the courtyard windows. Beyond the bloodrush in her ears and his labored breath, she can still make out the faint babble of the fountains, the distant birdsong drifting in from the gardens. 

They’d walked there, together, just the other day. He’d taken her hand and kissed it, his mouth fever warm against her knuckles, watching with amusement as she’d blushed furiously. 

He’d given her something to be properly scandalized over once he was certain that they were alone, taking her jaw in hand and kissing her, full and deep and proper, leaving her dazed and breathless in the aftermath.

She wonders if he’s certain that they’re alone now. He must be, his other hand sliding with promise down the curve of her waist, the sharp backs of his gauntleted fingers snagging her skirts, tearing and ripping as he goes. 

“Grinnaux,” she begs, keening fearfully — can’t even kick her feet anymore, the way the chains hold her fast, “don’t, please, we can’t, you can’t —” 

He laughs like she’s said something funny, tugging her shorts down to her knees, rucking up the tattered remnants of her skirts. She hears the shift of armor, the hollow clatter as pieces hit the floor; feels the sharp nudge of his knee as he forces her legs further apart, spreading her wide. This can’t be happening. He can’t, he can’t — 

She goes very still as he settles over her fully, as she feels something dreadfully large press up against her, prodding crudely at her as he seeks out that slick, wet heat between her legs. 

“That’s — impossible,” she sputters, voice cracking, panicking. “It won’t fit.” 

“Yeah?” He grunts low, pins her down all the more mean. “I’ll make it fit.”

Oh gods, she wishes the floor would swallow her whole. “No,” she tries, “no, you won’t, it won’t —” 

His palm covers her drooling mouth, smothering the useless protest. She writhes in his grip, feels the hard length of him slide against her cunt, teasing, coating himself in her slick. It shouldn’t feel good. She shouldn’t want, doesn’t want — 

His breath fans warm over her neck, lips brushing her temple. “Will you scream, if I let you? Have the others come running — let them watch? They certainly won’t help.” 

Her snarl ends up muffled against his palm, trying desperately to bite down, anything to fight back — like there isn’t an awful, rotten warmth settling low in her stomach, like she isn’t shamefully wet. He adjusts again, cockhead sliding more insistently through her folds — a shift of his hips to notch the tip in.

Her entire body jerks on reflex, straining desperately against her bonds, against him. She claws at the air, teeth sinking into the thick leather of his glove, utterly useless — still somehow enough to have him dislodge his hand as she immediately babbles, words slurring together, “Stop, stop — please, it hurts, it’s too much, it —” 

Miraculously, he does stop. She nearly sobs with relief as he relents, blissfully sliding free from her cunt, leaving her to slump beneath him as she gasps for breath. Perhaps he was still in there, after all; he was still him, he still — 

And then he is him, again, truly — as she feels the abrupt shift behind her, a swirl of aether that leaves him as himself, truly, no distortion to his voice. No longer a primal, but a man. Still large, still heavy, as he keeps her flush between him and the floor. She shivers, his lips warm and soft and achingly familiar as they graze her temple. 

He shifts again, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “Only because you begged.” 

His hips slam forward and she finally, at last, screams. 

It’s too much, still — always a stretch with him, always an effort to work his cock fully into her snug little cunt. No effort spared at all, this time, as he just fucks into her roughly, seats himself down to the hilt as she bursts into furious tears, thrashing blindly, begging for him to stop, stop —

“When you’re this wet?” he laughs, breathless and snarling and so impossibly mean. “Little liar. Say it like you mean it.” 

She tries. She tries and tries, pleading and sobbing, shuddering so violently she fears she might break with the effort if he doesn’t somehow break her first. All her blind thrashing is for nothing, his aetherial chains holding her fast, his body weight still more than enough to keep her pinned firmly to the floor — as it settles in, all at once, that she is truly helpless. 

Her cunt tightens over him, clenching so hard she feels miserable. 

His laugh is half-groan as he tangles a fist in her hair, gripping at the root to yank her head back, twisting until she whimpers. “You’ve always liked it rough, though — haven’t you, kitten?” His pace increases, the hand on her hip bruising as he holds her steady. “Begging for me to stop like you don’t love the shame, like you won’t come — oh, yes you will, please, like I can’t feel it —” 

To her credit, she tries not to. 

(Tells herself that she tries not to.) 

She still does, though, in the end — tips over the edge as she whimpers helplessly, toes curling in her boots. He lets her shudder through it, cooing softly in her face; the wet, lewd noise with each brutal thrust telling in its own way, echoing off the stone and ringing incessantly in her ears. It isn’t long before his pace sharpens, before he buries into her, makes it impossible to not feel each twitch and spurt of his cock in her aching cunt. He just fucks his spend deeper as he grunts, panting in her ear, telling her to take it, to be still, to be good. 

Like she has a choice.

He stays locked with her, after; one last lazy roll of his hips into the sticky, warm mess he leaves behind, arm still slipped up beneath her hips to hold her flush against him. She makes no immediate effort to move, rendered boneless as she slumps beneath him, her tear-stained cheek resting against the cool marble floor. 

She blinks blearily as he settles over her, a kiss pressed to her temple as her vision swims — as it sharpens, finally, as she catches sight of her bow resting just out of reach. 

She swallows thickly.

He’s still on her. He’s still in her. 

Her hand flexes.

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #11: Surrogate

~~

Within signed and sealed parchments stored in one of the vaults of the Holy See, in a counting house belonging to House Vilauclaire, one of Ishgard’s most established families, and the lockbox in the study of Viscount Vouloix de Aubemarle, all dated twenty-four turns ago:

‘By the good will of Halone the Fury, Goddess who guards our righteousness and justice, do I, Vouloix de Aubemarle, Viscount de Aubemarle, hereby declare my only son, Remont de Aubemarle, as rightful heir to the viscountcy, with all the rights, privileges, and dignities thereunto belonging, apart from the legacies I bestow upon my wife, daughter, sisters and other parties.’ 

`

On signed and sealed parchment, with copies stored in the archives of the Holy See, House Dzemael, and the lockbox in the study of Viscount Oudine de Aubemarle, all dated five turns ago:

‘I, Remont de Aubemarle, Viscount de Aubemarle, hereby abdicate the viscountcy, in favour of my twin sister, Oudine de Aubemarle. I relinquish all authority and power of the title of Viscount de Aubemarle along with its rights, privileges and dignities, of my own free will, without coercion or malicious motive. My last act as Viscount is to give my blessing to my sister, Oudine, and proclaim my faith in her who will henceforth lead House Aubemarle with honour, virtue and courage. This I swear in the holy high name of Halone the Fury, Divine Wielder of Spear and Shield, Blessed Bringer of Victory.’

-

end.

[dearestcherry]

dreisseaux's siblings. they all look very similar, each of them possessing the same feature that makes them individually striking: gray skin, long ears, dark hair with pale pink eyes and matching freckles. to further their resemblance, they were all named with the same initials. it's not uncommon for dreisseaux to be mistaken as a twin rather than the younger sibling to their brother, draudame (last photo).

[maxikha-ffxiv]

Julianne lore drop time.

Things locked into place for me doing mch questline on her yesterday (I'm likely raiding as mch next expac and Jules would be my alt for that to not mess with gear drops). Here's what I got:

- (former) Count Tarresson de Dzemael was the only high ranking member of the family who actually cared for Julianne. He was the one that fully embraced her adoption and was responsible for her getting treated as well as she did growing up, even though she wasn't true Dzemael blood.

- Julianne always had a passion for healing, and was studying the abilities of the scholars of Nym whilst growing up in Ishgard/joining the arcanist's guild.

- She is involved in the storyline of the MCH questline, but as a healer assisting with keeping the machinists up instead of "MCH WoL leading the charge"

- due to Tarresson's leave of the house (he's off in kupoland), no one else in the house liking that she was treated as well as she was by him, and Tedalgrinche's multiple attempts at sabotage of the MCH guild, Julianne found herself exiled from the House due to Tedalgrinche concocting an elaborate lie.

- after the events of the MCH questline Tedalgrinche walked back his statements, her name was cleared, but Julianne hasn't learned this yet.

- Tarresson himself recommended Julianne to Sharlayan as a wonderful choice for their Sage program and promised to vouch for any Sharlayan scholars who came to Ishgard to study the church in return, as having direct support from at least one if not more of the high houses of Ishgard would be beneficial.

- Julianne hasn't talked to anyone in House Dzemael since her exile save three, Tarresson, her former handmaiden Fayeth, and Jandelaine on occasion when she needs a hair appointment (she always enjoyed his skills with hair).

- Julianne has done well in her studies to become a proper sage, to the point of beginning to prepare to take an exam to be certified to practice the craft outside of Sharlayan.

- She is currently spending time abroad to learn other forms/styles of healing, as her studies in becoming an eventual archon (goal after sage) would be based on the benefits of applying other styles of healing with Sharlayan's Sage

[prudentfolly]

Hi! How are you?

Sorry for the silly question but is there anymore information on Miss Prudence DuBois? The small bit of lore I read of her in the tags has piqued my curiosity~

Hello! Not a silly question at all! I’m glad she’s piqued anyone’s curiosity! She is a fairly new character, born out of a need to have ‘just a dude’ character. I have a bit of background for her and not much else, currently. The background is a little heavy, however. She's tied to a friend's character, working as her retainer, and I am open to more connections with other characters!

CW for: mention of Suicide, drug and alcohol abuse, gambling, child neglect.

Born to a merchant father and his young bride, Prudence was sort of doomed from the start. Her father was not a very good merchant, you see, and he was over-confident in some of the seedier gambling dens. A few bad deals and their coffers were suddenly empty, their reputation in shreds.

They moved deep down into the brume when Prudence was but a few months old. 

And then the gambling dens came calling for their coin. 

Her father, in despair and shame, fell from the side of the city’s walls one morning. 

Her mother did her best, but she was young and the life of comfort she thought she had won was quickly lost. And with her husband now gone any debt he had fell to her to repay. She would never leave the Brume. Prudence would, though, clawing her way out of the chilly fog with her own skill and tenacity. 

Hearing of Stephanivien and his aid to commoners, Prudence made herself a nuisance until his only choice was to put a carbine in her hand. The roar of that gun makes Prudence feel powerful. 

Currently, Prudence works as a Retainer for a noble woman of House Dzemael. She is loyal and efficient. Incredibly proper around Madame and other nobles. Incredibly crass among her own people. 

A heavy smoker, a heavy drinker, an eager indulger of illicit drugs. On her own time, of course. Direct. Prone to losing touch with reality. Bitter. A workaholic.

A proper Ishgardian girl who goes to mass and doesn’t pray.

She is missing motivations and goals, but those will come eventually. Right now she's grateful to be alive and comfortable enough -- especially grateful to be overworked.

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

wip- association (heavensward)

"Noblewomen come with strings. They come with families. Parents, uncles, aunts, cousins that scheme and plot in the pursuit of adding more gil to their hoards or to relieve their boredom. Parties and balls are nothing more than glorified cattle fairs to select the appropriate breeding stock for bloodlines to continue. Nobody marries for love, it's simply to better the standing of the family. Your life is not your own. Depending on the family that you find yourself being bound to, should you have a child that shows any sort of physical or mental flaw they can be taken from you, never to be seen again. Your entire life you must be on guard and make no mistake, including making sure you use the appropriate spoon at dinner -time because Halone forbid, the scandal!" Augustine spat. The bitterness in the paladin's voice made Edmont physically check. He had heard about the toxicity that was the Minor Houses in Dzemael--and of the High House itself, but this...

No... Almost automatically he reached out towards the younger man's shoulder, wanting to offer some comfort, to tell him no, that wasn't the case--not all nobles were as such...

Are you certain about that? A nasty little voice inside his mind whispered. Look at the mess you made with your sons. Your wife and your mistress.

"Not..." Edmont found his tongue, swallowing. "Not everyone is like that, Ser Sey--Augustine." He watched as Augustine shook his head.

"In that you are right, but you know such spirit is punished. Beaten down and broken into conformity. And then again, there is always family. There are always strings with the nobility, good intentions or not. And more often than not, the strings are a nest of depravity, ill-will, greed, and malice."

[morganaux]

“I live to serve you. Always.” 

Cheeks and eartips reddening, Morganaux nearly dropped the ornament he had been handling, holding it tightly to his chest as he gawked at Hythlodaeus. To hear such words was not at all what he had been expecting when he had asked his dear friend to do the honor of adorning the Starlight tree with its shining star.

And yet, he was far from being opposed to hearing them.

He had read words like those often in the faerietales he adored, spoken by dashing knights in grand declarations of devotion to the lords and ladies they had sworn themselves to. Though such a statement was surely made in jest— it had to have been— Morganaux couldn't help but allow his imagination to run wild, if only for a moment.

Shaking off the indulgent thoughts that had begun to take root in his mind, the Elezen held out the ornament in question, a bashful smile upon his lips. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" he chuckled, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "You are my esteemed guest and I am your humble host, eager to be of service to you."